


you crush the lily in my soul

by undecimber



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6398776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undecimber/pseuds/undecimber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus likes Achilles’ disguise more than he’s willing to let on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you crush the lily in my soul

Achilles notices the looks-darting glances from the corners of Patroclus' eyes, like flitting birds-and doesn't know what to make of them. He's reminded of the time when they were children, before they were friends, when they made a game of catching his eyes at dinner, across the tables separating them. Patroclus would always avert them a fraction of a moment later as though he hadn’t been looking, even knowing that Achilles knew.

It’s different now; his elusive gaze offers no challenge. His eyelids sweep down in singular coyness and it would be really sweet, how flustered he looks when Achilles arches an eyebrow at him in silent question, if it isn't for the unsettling fact that he is certainly hiding something.

What it is, Achilles cannot tell. They’re not in the habit of keeping secrets from one another. He almost has the mind to ask him out right what his problem was? Is it something I did? It’s not like you to hide things from me, Patroclus?  
But he holds his tongue, trusting that in time his companion will come out with it.

He doesn't. It goes on for a day or two more, and eventually, Achilles begins to put a number of things together.

Patroclus’ gaze seems to be particularly drawn to his garments. A few times he notes that, while sitting close, Patroclus reaches out and pinches the fabric of his dress between his fingers, almost as though to ascertain whether it's real.  
When Achilles has to uphold his disguise in the presence of others: when he softens his posture and uses his high, reedy girl voice –Patroclus is almost bewildered.  
One instance, as Achilles unties the cloth binding his head, drawing it away and shaking his hair loose, Patroclus makes a halting comment about the curled state of it.  
"It's a nuisance," says Achilles, running a hand through it carelessly.  
"It's pretty," mumbles Patroclus.

The word catches Achilles' attention, _pretty_ , the way Patroclus said it. Suddenly, it all slots together. Suddenly he realizes that underneath the vague embarrassment, something else lurks in Patroclus' eyes.

The next day, when they come out to their frequented solitary strip of beach, Achilles doesn't take his dress off like he usually does. He lifts it up and lets it bunch up to his knees as he sets about running; when he's done a lap, he lets the skirt drop. It bellows in the air, and he leans a little to smooth it down. He tilts his head up to where Patroclus is standing, fixes him with a downright coquettish look, and has the utter satisfaction of finding him completely transfixed. He sees it clear as day, the muted longing.

_There! At last, I‘ve caught you._

He grins so wide, it splits his face. "Come, Patroclus," he says, "I'll race you."

 

* * *

  
  
Achilles did not protest his disguise in shame the way another boy might have done. His self-assurance is such that the entire affair is a mild inconvenience to him, nothing more. It's only clothes. They don't attest to his worth; don't change a thing about him.

Deidameia had taken keen pleasure in dressing him up. She made him try a dozen different dresses, deciding which suited him best, softening the sharpness of his figure, intimating feminine curves where he has none. She draped him in veils and picked accessories for him, bejeweled rings and bracelets with intricate designs carved into them that tinkered when he moved his arms.  
She brandished a mirror of polished bronze before him and said, "There, _Pyrrha_. Look how pretty you are!" laughingly, as if the whole thing was a jest that amused her greatly.

She also took it upon herself to teach him to dance; and while learning the steps proved to be simple enough, the problem lay in the way he executed them.

"No, no, that won't do at all," she pouted, tapping her chin with her finger. "You need to be softer, more delicate. See?”  
She demonstrated the right way to do it, twisting her dainty wrists to the music, gyrating her lower body smoothly. Achilles did his best to imitate her.  
"That's better, but you're still too  _manly_ ," she smirked. "You need to loosen your hips."  
She placed both her hands on them to guide his movement.  
"Yes, good. Like that," she cooed, swishing her own to show him, batting her long black lashes up at him.

*

That Patroclus finds his play at femininity attractive is unexpected, to say the least. Achilles is amused and intrigued in equal parts. He wishes to do something about it, wants to draw the longing out of Patroclus' eyes. Wants to give him this thing he seems too timid to ask for.

The following evening, over dinner, he leans into him; whispers, "Wait for me in our room," into his ear, and steals away after the meal is done.

Earlier, he solicited the assistance of one of the girls in getting ready. He affected demureness, said that he wished to please his husband more than usual tonight, and she'd giggled knowingly.  
She helps him with his hair. She lines his eyes with charcoal and gently pats his mouth with a trace of paste to redden it. The dress he puts on is particularly nice, with a finely embroidered hem. Finally, he adorns his arms with gold bracelets, steps into anklets too.

Some time later, he knocks on the door to their room briskly before entering. Patroclus is half-inclined on the bed. "Where have you been–?" he begins to ask, sitting up, but stops abruptly when his eyes land on Achilles. His face is curiously blank.  
Achilles’ confidence flags for an instant: he wonders whether he made a terrible mistake. He feels very foolish, in a way he isn't accustomed to at all. He doesn't let it show, regardless; he lifts his chin up and makes his way towards Patroclus with slow measured steps, swaying his hips subtly, the way Deidameia taught him.

Patroclus is wide-eyed. A flush blossoms on his cheek. That is all the reassurance Achilles needs to restore his confidence.  
"I've seen the way you look at me," he says, softly.  
"I don't know what you mean," Patroclus mumbles.  
Achilles touches his chin gently to make him meet his eyes again.  
"You like this," he states, coaxingly, "don't you? It pleases you?"

A beat of silence.

  
"Achilles," is all Patroclus says, then. There's an almost desperate edge to the utterance. It makes Achilles grin, he can't help it. He loves to see Patroclus so affected by him. His hand still touches Patroclus' face; he lets it wander, caressing the warmth of his cheek, the pads of his index and middle finger moving to brush against his mouth faintly. Patroclus presses a little kiss to them. It's such a sweet gesture, but it thrills him, inexplicably. He steps closer, plants one knee then the other on either side of Patroclus' hips, then tips his head back to kiss him.

Patroclus welcomes the kiss eagerly, open-mouthed, arms wrapping around Achilles to pull him closer, hands grasping fistfuls of his dress. He draws Achilles' plump bottom lip between his own to suck on. Achilles moans, lowly. He flattens his palms on Patroclus' chest and pushes him back till he's knelt on top of him on the bed, his golden hair falling down in a curtain.  
He's gorgeous. His eyes are rimmed in black, so the green of his iris is more striking than ever. His lips are so red as to be obscene. Even the scent of him is intoxicating, some perfume he must have dabbed on his neck while dressing up, sweet and floral.

The fact that he has done this solely for Patroclus rouses something wild in him that he cannot name. He tightens his hold on Achilles and flips their positions, so he's on top. Achilles settles down with an airy laugh. Any other time, he might have playfully wrestled with him; they might have rolled over and over in a tangle of limbs, each seeking to pin the other down. But this time is different. He stays put, soft and pliant. He spreads his legs with invitation in his eyes.

Patroclus insinuates himself between them at once, leaning down to resume kissing. He mouths down Achilles' neck and nips along his shoulder; presses dozens of kisses along Achilles' clothed chest and belly. He sweeps a trail of touch along his leg from underneath his dress, hiking it up until it falls in folds about his hips, exposing him entirely. Achilles almost wants to close his legs, he feels so shy suddenly.

Patroclus regards him for a long moment, drinking the sight of him in: the curled locks of his hair, spread out on the bed; his glistening, softly parted lips; the line of his throat. And the dress- _his dress–_ prettily draped around the jutting v of his hips.

There's a certain quality to him right now that isn't quite vulnerability, but is close to it. Something exquisite that makes Patroclus’ blood quicken. Bold Achilles, graceful Achilles, powerful Achilles–he now looks up at him through the fringe of his curling lashes, his limbs, with their latent strength, arrayed in such lovely surrender.  
"Patroclus," he whispers.

Patroclus leans in to nuzzle a line down his inner thigh. It makes him shiver. When Patroclus' lips close around him, he moans.  
_Yes_ ; and _please_ ; and _Patroclus!_

 

* * *

  
Afterwards, Patroclus is sprawled atop Achilles' chest, playing with one of his curls idly, twining it around his finger. "You're so beautiful," he tells him, quietly. Achilles smiles.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Achilles asks at length.  
"I don't know," shrugs Patroclus, cheeks pinkening. "I was embarrassed. I was—I was afraid you'd think it was weird."  
This causes Achilles to smirk. "Well, it couldn't have been much weirder than that time you asked me to—"

Patroclus claps his hand over Achilles' mouth, face positively ablaze with embarrassment. "You are not allowed to finish that sentence!" he exclaims. His hand muffles Achilles' decidedly un-princely giggle. Achilles licks at it, making him snatch it back with a cry of disgust.  
"You're insufferable!"

Achilles laughs heartily and rolls them over. He pins Patroclus down and bestows a shower of smooches on his scrunched up face. "Ugh," protests Patroclus. Achilles pulls back and looks down at him, beaming brightly; it's unfair just how stunning he looks.  
"Patroclus," he says. "You love me."  
"No," says Patroclus, just to be contrary.  
Achilles doesn't stop grinning. "You love me," he says, and kisses him again, on his nose. "Say it, Patroclus."  
"No."  
Another kiss, on his eyelid this time. "Say it."  
"No."  
Achilles' lips trace the shell of his ear. "Say it."  
_"Achilles..."_

Achilles' mouth hovers above his own. He whispers, "Say it," and their lips brush against each other, faintly. The fight leaves him altogether.  
"I love you," he says breathlessly.

  
Achilles kisses him properly then, deep and lingering.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because Achilles in drag is my passion. I have no excuse.


End file.
